88 Inches
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Holly wants to know what makes Gibbs so ... Gibbs ... and to her surprise, he tells her. Part of my Pretty Woman series / Jethsnow.


_a/n: i think i've decided to cap this series at 5 ficlets, so here is number 3. i'll find some inspiration for the other two this semester, probably! on that note, i wish we could see holly snow back for a bit (though of course, knowing NCIS, she'd show back off only to be killed off)._

_set an indiscriminate time after season 7 (closer to season 10)_

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><p>In the more than twenty years since it had happened, she was the first person he willingly <em>told<em> about the loss of his wife and daughter; the first person to whom he'd volunteered the information, without provocation, without reason, except perhaps to ease the burden – because she happened to be there, and he was thinking about it.

It didn't come out in a brutal fight – it didn't come out at the courthouse during his divorce, or because someone had seen his NCIS file, or talked to his first partner; he told her. Quietly, and with some awkwardness – because he didn't know how people did this, how people talked about things like this, he answered her when she asked –

"Why are you the way you are, Jethro?"

He had known it was a coy question; the type of question that – in the close past – she might have teased a client with, though when she asked him, she wasn't entirely flirtatious. There was a hint of curiosity, of weight wonder, to her tone, and he'd been pouring after dinner drinks when she asked –

It had been another comfortably absurd evening – comfortable because they felt at ease around each other, absurd because of her background juxtaposed with his – and she'd born witness to another of his idiosyncrasies, another thing he did that seemed so lost and bachelor-esque, even though he'd had three wives to boast of, to show him how to live like a human male, and not a Marine, or a mere caveman.

But when she'd asked what she'd asked, he'd answered – because it had been on his mind. It was just one of those days when it was on his mind, and he couldn't shake it – and because of that, he'd been grateful when she made one of her welcome but unpredictable appearances, though he hadn't planned on talking about it –

"My wife and daughter were killed, in ninety-one."

He said it in his usual way – gruff, concealed, controlled, and not only was he telling her about it, it was damn near the first time he'd acknowledged that it had forever changed him, upended his life's trajectory and made him into a man he'd never seen himself becoming, because back in those days, before he lost them, his visions of the future had been so utterly characterized _by_ them, by their future – together.

Holly had surprised him – Holly had always surprised him. There was no dramatic reaction from her – no anguished gasp, wide, watering eyes, no screaming, clawing attempts to hug him – he'd experienced all of that, and she was none of that.

She had laid her head on his shoulder briefly; she had touched his wrist, and she had said –

"Are they the two in the photograph on your mantle?"

She had looked at it, then – she had studied the photo the first time she'd been here, when he'd given her the promised dinner, without expectations – she remembered wondering about it, but thinking it not her place to ask.

He nodded, glancing up, lifting his chin high and narrowing his eyes.

"Shannon," he said, moving his hand and pointing heavily at the right side of the photo, "and Kelly."

Holly had taken him by surprise again, then; she had got up, and sat behind him on the couch. She seemed to hesitate, and then she shifted so he was sitting on the floor between her knees, her thighs draped over his shoulders, bare feet resting lightly on his legs.

Her hands found the nape of his neck, moved up through his short hair in a gentle, soothing motion, and she dipped her head forward a moment, whispering –

"I find it easier to talk about things like this if there's no eye contact," she murmured sagely.

He pressed his neck back against her firm touch. She was right, he realized, with a rush of relief; he had never liked the sadness and ache and pity in others' eyes when the subject came up – not at the funeral, and not now – because it only reminded him – and sometimes, it angered him, because he thought – what right did those others have to feel sad, when none of them could possibly feel it as brutally as he did?

"Where'd you learn that?" he asked Holly.

"Oh," she breathed simply, shrugging her shoulders. Her toes pressed against his jeans gently, kneading a little. "My line of work," she said, and then paused. "I don't mean to compare an escort service to a tragedy," she explained calmly. "I mean I discovered that deeply personal things are better heard than seen, if revealed at all."

Gibbs sat still, his jaw set, considering that. He wasn't sure he knew what she meant, but he was grateful for her discretion.

"How were they killed?" she asked.

He didn't answer for a long time, and when she said nothing – just moved her hands against his neck, and in his hair, and pressed her toes into him gently – he knew it meant she wouldn't test him, and she had no intentions of asking for more than he wanted to give, and maybe that gave him the strength to explain it.

"Murdered," he said gruffly. "Car – targeted car accident," he said hoarsely.

He paused, and he told her – in short terms, technical terms – what had happened. What Shannon had seen, who she had angered, how the death of one NIS agent had resulted in the death of them all – he mentioned his mentor, he mentioned the loss of his passion for the Marines, the organization that had taken him to Pendleton, where they had witnessed it, and then taken him away, so they were gone and he was helpless.

Holly leaned forward, moving her hands down to his shoulders, her warm hands easing the tension in his muscles.

"Was he caught?" she asked softly. "Pedro Hernandez? Was there a trial?"

Gibbs tilted his head to the side, closing his eyes. Her touch was comforting, a little distracting, but mostly good. He gave a little shrug of his shoulders, a small shake of his head.

"He was shot and killed by a sniper," he answered quietly.

Holly's hands stilled briefly, then moved again, and she tapped twice on his collarbone with her finger; she believed she understood – she knew the gist of his military career.

He was waiting for her to say it – the thing they all said, the generic condolence, something like 'I'm sorry for your loss' or 'My god, how awful!' something, something like that, but what she said was –

"And you think that made you how you are?" she murmured curiously. "You never – grilled a steak in beer over an open flame, or … slept on a couch, or glared to get your way instead of speaking?"

To his surprise, he laughed – a short, genuine snort of laughter.

"I got away with two out of three," he relented.

"I doubt your first wife let you get away with the glares," Holly guessed lightly.

But he shook his head.

"Nah," he corrected gruffly. "Never slept on a couch, when I had Shannon."

Holly laughed.

"Even if she was angry?"

He was silent for a long time, again. Then he said:

"Neither of us ever went to bed angry."

Holly smiled to herself.

She curled her fingers into fists and ran them over his neck lightly, pursing her lips hesitantly.

"It's not tangible," she remarked gently. "Losing them did something to you."

He couldn't say anything. He gave her one simple nod.

"What was Shannon's Jethro like?" Holly asked, her knuckles running over his jaw.

Gibbs blinked. He closed his eyes again, and lifted his shoulders.

"I don't remember," he admitted huskily.

"Is there anyone left who does?" she asked, her mouth down next to his temple.

He shook his head.

"No."

Then he paused, and smiled a little, resigned.

"My mother-in-law," he corrected.

Holly laughed softly.

"And I'm sure she tried to change you every day, back then," she teased quietly.

Gibbs smirked, a small, hollow smirk.

"Why did you marry those other women?" Holly inquired. "There was an equally unhealthy path to take – isolation," she suggested, and then smirked a little, "prostitutes," she added, "my, we could have met years ago."

The smirk stayed on Gibbs' face, a little warmer.

"They reminded me of her," he admitted finally. "Their hair."

"Do I remind you of her?" Holly murmured.

He inclined his head a little, and then seemed to change his head, and shook it.

"Don't hold it against me," Holly breathed.

He shook his head again.

"Learned that lesson," he said gruffly, "learned it too late."

"Was there ever anyone who tried to understand you?" Holly asked.

He hadn't ever let them, had he? Because he hadn't told them about this; they'd always just found out. Friends, co-workers, wives – he hadn't ever given them a chance. He hadn't wanted to be understood, not by anyone but Shannon.

"Third wife said I needed therapy," he grunted.

He rolled his eyes.

"Never trust anyone you pay to understand you," Holly said in his ear – sincere, wise, "never trust anyone you pay to love you, or to be with you," she added.

She thought a moment, and then she grinned.

"You know – my leg is 44 inches, from hip to toe," she told him, moving forward so her body pressed against his head, neck, and shoulders. "So, we're talking about – 88 inches of therapy, wrapped around you," she continued, tightening her legs around him in a strange sort of hug. She loosened them, and then she pulled her palm over his head, and pressed her lips to his temple.

He took in a deep breath.

Holly laughed quietly.

"That was a perfect set up for you to make a painfully macho joke about therapeutic inches you could give me," she murmured. "Would you have made it – before you lost her?"

He blinked a moment, and then turned, catching her eye. He shook his head.

"She'd kill me for thinking it," he said in a low voice.

Holly licked her lips, and pointed at him as if she'd got him.

"These years would have been easier for you," she told him quietly, "if you had kept trying to be the man you were for her, instead of asking other women to be _Shannon_ for you."

He looked at Holly steadily, and she nodded her head for emphasis.

"The only moments when you can rely on others to save you – are if they're pushing you away from a moving bus, or pulling you back from a hiking cliff – and even then," she paused pointedly, "you have to look out for yourself."

Gibbs still stared at her.

"You should like her," he said finally. "She talked like that, to our daughter."

"And would she have liked this," Holly laughed, pointing between them, "her husband and his prostitute friend?"

He gave her an appraising look, and then he lifted one shoulder, his eyes falling to her knee.

"She wouldn't recognize her husband, Madam Snow," he said gruffly, honestly – it was true; he knew that now – in all the years he'd spent desperate to have Shannon back, he'd become someone she never knew.

Holly leaned forward, and she picked up a jar full of whiskey – forgotten on the coffee table, next to its mate – and she took a drink, her legs still wrapped loosely around him.

She pressed her heel against his heart.

"I think she would," Holly said simply. "Twenty or so years of watching your bullshit from the great beyond – that woman's got a hell of a lot to nag you about," she teased wryly – gently.

Gibbs tilted his head back and rested it against her abdomen, glaring. She raised her glass to him.

"Do you feel better?" she asked softly, one of her eyes dancing quickly in a small wink – as if she knew that in some inexplicable way, his choice to mention it had not destroyed him.

He went to shake his head no, to tell her it never got better, but his muscles protested, they seemed to stop him, and instead, he tilted his head at an angle, meeting her eyes intently, and he nodded.

Whether there was magic in his words, or in Holly Snow's legs, he didn't know – but tonight, he felt less burdened; tonight, within the company of a friend, it didn't weigh so heavily on his heart.

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><p><em>"Did I mention my leg is 44 inches from hip to toe? So basically we're talkin' about 88 inches of therapy, wrapped around you, for the bargain price of trhee thousand dollars!" - Vivien Ward to Edward Lewis, <span>Pretty Woman<span>, 1990._

_i just **hint** at the possibility that they have a friends-with-benefits relationship because with this particular "ship," i'm afraid of commitment to the sex part, haha. _

_i think i took a risk with Gibbs here, so let me know what you think. also, this is really unbeta'd, and it's trying to take advantage of Gibbs' massive progress about his losses since like seasons 3 and 4. _

_-Alexandra_

_story #445_


End file.
